| Chapter One Excerpt |
| May 1996 |
I don’t think I can be a Christian anymore.
The words sliced Chris McIntyre’s heart. The Bible in her hands shook.
I’m sorry, Lord. Rinny said to take it slow. But I can’t get away from it. I mean, it says it
again, right here. If I don’t forgive others, You won’t forgive me. Jesus, You said it so many
times. In so many different ways. In Your prayer. In Your teachings. You said, “If you don’t
forgive . . .”
With Erin's help, she had forgiven Rich. She had even forgiven Del. What a moron. It was easy
to forgive morons.
She had even forgiven herself.
It was so much harder to forgive the one she had dared to love, the one whose love for her had
caused so much pain.
He did love me once. Didn’t he? When I was really young?
The memory of that day returned to haunt her. The day she had climbed up on her father’s lap
and leaned against his chest, then rested her head against his shoulder. His strong arms had
encircled her, had tenderly pulled her against him. He spoke soft words in her ear. Words she
would always treasure. His voice, she would never forget. “You’re a good girl, Chrissy. You’re a
good girl.”
But, Lord! What did I do? Did I suddenly turn bad? Did I cause him that much grief that he
grew to hate me?
Only hate would drive a father to beat his child so viciously.
Chris jumped off her bed and tossed her Bible on the nightstand. Quickly headed for the
kitchen. Ran her fingers through her hair as she walked, as she let out a long, deep breath.
Later, Lord. Later.
She grabbed the gallon of milk out of the refrigerator. Poured herself a glassful. Quickly lifted
it for a long drink. Closed her eyes as the milk left a cool, soothing trail from her throat to her
stomach. She waited another second, hoping it would soothe the burn there.
If the milk didn’t work, she knew something that would. It had been months since she’d taken
her last drink of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. Since that night at Dandy’s Pub. The night that jerk pushed
Erin down. The night Chris, for the first time in her life, cried out to Jesus for help.
Her eyes closed as she remembered that night. The night Erin would not let her leave. The night
the Lord Jesus Christ heard her cry.
Please hear me now. I don’t want to hurt You. Help me know what to do.
Well, that was a dumb prayer. She knew exactly what He wanted her to do. The question was,
would she do it?
Lord Jesus, I know You’re asking me to forgive my dad. If I refuse to forgive him, how can I
expect You to continue to forgive me? I know it’s true. I need to forgive him.
She took another long drink of milk. Swallowed. Slowly opened her eyes and blinked.
But there is no way.
Her throat tightened. Started to ache.
I’m sorry, Lord, but there is no way I can ever forgive my dad. If You know anything about
me, You know I can’t.
Tears burned her eyes.
And if You know me, You know that isn’t true. It’s not that I can’t forgive him, it’s that I
won't. Ever.
She turned, grabbed her keys, and left the apartment, slamming the door behind her, leaving her
jacket hanging on its peg, her half-empty glass and the gallon of milk on the counter.
* * *
From inside the Kimberley Street Medical Clinic, Erin Mathis heard the door of the apartment
above her slam. Chris and Cappy’s apartment. One of them stomped down the outside stairs. Angry
stomps. She hoped it was Cappy.
Past the front windows of the clinic, Chris McIntyre, Erin’s dearest friend, made her way down
the long porch. Erin held her breath for a second, hoping Chris would stop at the clinic’s door and
peek her head inside. Just to say a quick hello.
The door didn’t open.
More angry stomps.
Erin peered out the big front window and waited. Chris, head lowered against the spring rain,
walked down the sidewalk, down Kimberley Street, probably toward the new gymnasium. On her
way to work.
With a deep sigh, Erin relaxed in her chair, then rubbed the back of her neck. She had never felt
so bloated, so positively monstrous. Her weight gain, her bulging belly, her increasing impatience,
being pregnant so long, so ready to be over and done with it.
She returned to her insurance paperwork. Couldn’t concentrate. Slowly looked up. Fat drops of
rain splashed off the porch railing. Smacked against the leaves of the azalea bush in the front yard.
Father? Is Chris going to be all right?
Constant. Relentless. Splashes of rain.
She wants so much to learn about You. To follow Your Son. She’s really struggling right
now. And I don’t know how to help her.
Tears blurred the splashes of rain. Erin made no effort to blink them away.
I can only pretend to imagine what she’s facing. What she’s been through. Only You can
help her find a way . . . to forgive her dad.
Her tears spilled as her eyes fell closed. Bitter memories flooded her mind. Horrible things
she had seen. Things she had heard. The few things Chris had told her.
Please help her, Father. Help her once and for all to put everything behind her. Please free
her from all of it. Completely, Lord. For the first time in her life, please, help her to be free.
The words sliced Chris McIntyre’s heart. The Bible in her hands shook.
I’m sorry, Lord. Rinny said to take it slow. But I can’t get away from it. I mean, it says it
again, right here. If I don’t forgive others, You won’t forgive me. Jesus, You said it so many
times. In so many different ways. In Your prayer. In Your teachings. You said, “If you don’t
forgive . . .”
With Erin's help, she had forgiven Rich. She had even forgiven Del. What a moron. It was easy
to forgive morons.
She had even forgiven herself.
It was so much harder to forgive the one she had dared to love, the one whose love for her had
caused so much pain.
He did love me once. Didn’t he? When I was really young?
The memory of that day returned to haunt her. The day she had climbed up on her father’s lap
and leaned against his chest, then rested her head against his shoulder. His strong arms had
encircled her, had tenderly pulled her against him. He spoke soft words in her ear. Words she
would always treasure. His voice, she would never forget. “You’re a good girl, Chrissy. You’re a
good girl.”
But, Lord! What did I do? Did I suddenly turn bad? Did I cause him that much grief that he
grew to hate me?
Only hate would drive a father to beat his child so viciously.
Chris jumped off her bed and tossed her Bible on the nightstand. Quickly headed for the
kitchen. Ran her fingers through her hair as she walked, as she let out a long, deep breath.
Later, Lord. Later.
She grabbed the gallon of milk out of the refrigerator. Poured herself a glassful. Quickly lifted
it for a long drink. Closed her eyes as the milk left a cool, soothing trail from her throat to her
stomach. She waited another second, hoping it would soothe the burn there.
If the milk didn’t work, she knew something that would. It had been months since she’d taken
her last drink of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. Since that night at Dandy’s Pub. The night that jerk pushed
Erin down. The night Chris, for the first time in her life, cried out to Jesus for help.
Her eyes closed as she remembered that night. The night Erin would not let her leave. The night
the Lord Jesus Christ heard her cry.
Please hear me now. I don’t want to hurt You. Help me know what to do.
Well, that was a dumb prayer. She knew exactly what He wanted her to do. The question was,
would she do it?
Lord Jesus, I know You’re asking me to forgive my dad. If I refuse to forgive him, how can I
expect You to continue to forgive me? I know it’s true. I need to forgive him.
She took another long drink of milk. Swallowed. Slowly opened her eyes and blinked.
But there is no way.
Her throat tightened. Started to ache.
I’m sorry, Lord, but there is no way I can ever forgive my dad. If You know anything about
me, You know I can’t.
Tears burned her eyes.
And if You know me, You know that isn’t true. It’s not that I can’t forgive him, it’s that I
won't. Ever.
She turned, grabbed her keys, and left the apartment, slamming the door behind her, leaving her
jacket hanging on its peg, her half-empty glass and the gallon of milk on the counter.
* * *
From inside the Kimberley Street Medical Clinic, Erin Mathis heard the door of the apartment
above her slam. Chris and Cappy’s apartment. One of them stomped down the outside stairs. Angry
stomps. She hoped it was Cappy.
Past the front windows of the clinic, Chris McIntyre, Erin’s dearest friend, made her way down
the long porch. Erin held her breath for a second, hoping Chris would stop at the clinic’s door and
peek her head inside. Just to say a quick hello.
The door didn’t open.
More angry stomps.
Erin peered out the big front window and waited. Chris, head lowered against the spring rain,
walked down the sidewalk, down Kimberley Street, probably toward the new gymnasium. On her
way to work.
With a deep sigh, Erin relaxed in her chair, then rubbed the back of her neck. She had never felt
so bloated, so positively monstrous. Her weight gain, her bulging belly, her increasing impatience,
being pregnant so long, so ready to be over and done with it.
She returned to her insurance paperwork. Couldn’t concentrate. Slowly looked up. Fat drops of
rain splashed off the porch railing. Smacked against the leaves of the azalea bush in the front yard.
Father? Is Chris going to be all right?
Constant. Relentless. Splashes of rain.
She wants so much to learn about You. To follow Your Son. She’s really struggling right
now. And I don’t know how to help her.
Tears blurred the splashes of rain. Erin made no effort to blink them away.
I can only pretend to imagine what she’s facing. What she’s been through. Only You can
help her find a way . . . to forgive her dad.
Her tears spilled as her eyes fell closed. Bitter memories flooded her mind. Horrible things
she had seen. Things she had heard. The few things Chris had told her.
Please help her, Father. Help her once and for all to put everything behind her. Please free
her from all of it. Completely, Lord. For the first time in her life, please, help her to be free.
Valiant Hope
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© 2006 Donna A. Fleisher
| Matthew 6:15 "But if you do not forgive. . . ." |
| Hebrews 3:5-6 And Moses indeed was faithful in all His house as a servant, for a testimony of those things which would be spoken afterward, but Christ as a Son over His own house, whose house we are if we hold fast the confidence and the rejoicing of the hope firm to the end. |